


Colors

by InkFlavored



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Biracial Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Character Study, Colors, Deadlock McCree, Gen, Making up shit about Omnics, Making up shit about the Shambali, Non-Graphic Violence, Open to Interpretation, angela works too hard, color symbolism, depending on the character i guess, hanzo is guilty, i guess?, making up shit about angela's career, making up shit about cyborgs, making up shit about the omnic crisis, sorry guys mccree's gotta suffer, the ovw canon is so vague i just stopped caring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:52:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFlavored/pseuds/InkFlavored
Summary: There are colors everywhere in the world around us. Whether we notice them or not is up to us. Some people are tied to colors, and some people are colors themselves.





	1. Green

**Author's Note:**

> i absolutely adore color symbolism and i also adore overwatch, this was bound to happen eventually
> 
> more and more characters WILL be added eventually, but i am 1) a slow writer and 2) VERY BUSY
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

Vibrant, electric green. An energetic color, the color of energy drinks and party lights, of bright grass of a summer’s day, the sort of day that's just hot enough to make you sweat, but with enough of a breeze that makes it bearable, perfect for staying outside and doing just about anything. The kind of day that screams life, that yells to run, to jump, to fly, to live in the loudest possible way. Green, the color of leaves, the intensity of living, the bright rush of adrenaline that comes with staying out too late. Green, the color of life. Ironic that it should be plastered all over the robotic body of man who shouldn’t have been alive.

Genji, at first, thought the green lights on “his” body insulting – a mockery of his existence, and a painful reminder of the eccentric days of his youth. The youngest son of a powerful crime lord was already hard to miss – when you gave him green hair, it was impossible. He’d liked the attention green brought him, liked the stares and compliments, he even reveled in those that told him it looked ridiculous. The vivid colors of nightlife suited him even more, he thought, with such a wild hairstyle. Back then, green defined him. Now, green was only a painful reminder that Genji Shimada, as bright and happy and alive as he was as a young man, had been reduced to nothing. A half-alive body rebuilt into something that couldn’t even be considered human. Man and machine weren’t meant to be joined – live and death weren’t supposed to exist simultaneously.

Green became disgusting to him. Bitterness took place of his boundless energy, self-hatred took the place of his vibrancy, anger replaced his love of living, and revenge took the place of his constant need to go out and live and _feel alive_ in the best ways. The sight of flourishing plants made him sick, the sight of any sort of life only caused him to retreat deeper and deeper inside himself. Because he was not _green_ – he was not himself anymore. He was not Genji, he was someone – some _thing_ – else. This new body, this was not life. It was a mimicry of it.

He was determined to hate this “second chance” he’d been given, and he did not find it very difficult. What with the knowledge that Overwatch had only helped him for the sake of destroying his family, rebuilding him with no other purpose but creating a living weapon, he found it rather _easy_ to despise everything about it. They did not give him the ability to feel textures, because what why would a living weapon need such a trivial feature? They gave him the ability to feel pressure, force, balance, shock, even pain. But soft and rough were now only memories. He could no longer eat or drink, internal damage leaving most of his organs useless. He now only charged, replenished a _battery_ , in the place of nutrients. The most human things had been taken from him, and he could never get them back. _Everything_ about this “life” felt cheated, tainted, blemished in some way. At his worst, he did not even consider himself to be alive.

Genji discovered new shades of green even as he grew to hate the old ones. Disgusting, horrifying, angry shades of green. Green with envy, at the humanity and the life that he lost, looking around at his “companions” at Overwatch with only the feeling of being alone. Green of illness, the green of the vomit from a stomach he no longer had, the sensation of nausea a painful memory. He never missed the feeling more, the human feeling of sickness, a feeling he could no longer experience. The awful, bright, shining green of his body, the green that brought death and destruction, the color his hair once was, the green he didn’t belong to anymore. He hated that shade of green the most. He even despised the color of his dragon, the color that had been home to home for so long. The color that had brought him strength at his weakest, hope in his darkest places, had become foreign to him.

But desperately wanted it back – the green. Though he would never speak of it to anyone for many years, he missed feeling alive. He hated how he could no longer look at the color green without feeling the urge to tear himself apart, the self-deprecation he treated himself to day after day. He hated that spring made him wish for winter, so that everything around him would be lifeless and dead, and he wouldn’t have to look at the world in such startlingly alive colors. He hated green and hated hating green, and he thought it might drive him insane. He wanted to love green, he missed loving green, but the thought of loving the color made him feel unclean. Green both felt an insult as well as degrading. He felt unworthy of the color that was now permanently attached to him. He was not worthy of it.

This was no clearer to him than the day his discovered his dragon stopped responding to him. He waited for the blast of bright, burning green, loath to see it, but knowing its necessity, but it never came. He could not feel its power, its hunger, running through his body, he could not feel it guide his blade or movements. He did not become energized and relish the feeling of defeating the foes that dared threaten his life. He did not feel the dragon. He did not see the green. It broke him.

He tried speaking with the dragon for days after that, but to no avail. It would not speak to him, he would not aid him in battle, and he began to despise green even more. He began to despise _living_ more.

He completed his mission – destroy the Shimada-gumi. He felt a sick sense of pleasure knowing the people that had ordered his death were dead themselves, even if they did not know it was him. He knew, and that was enough. He relished destroying Shimada Castle with projectiles and blades and smearing the carpets and walls with blood. The sound of gunfire via Overwatch backup and the screams of the dying Shimada clan rang in his ears like music, and for a moment, he was green. A distorted, smeared version of green, but it made him feel like he was worth something, and that was enough green for him. He latched onto it like it would restore his body and save his life.

He held onto that green until the end of the mission, and then he released it with a furious curse and a sense of frustration: Hanzo was not there.

Genji’s murderer (because Hanzo was nothing else to Genji – not anymore) was not at the single place Genji would have expected him to be – the driving force behind joining Overwatch and being brought back with a miserable body to a miserable life. Killing Hanzo – exacting revenge – was the reason he had allowed himself to do _anything_. And he had missed his only opportunity.

No – no, Hanzo would not have just _left_. He was alive, he was somewhere, and with the vast spy network the Shimada-gumi once had, Hanzo had probably seen Overwatch coming from miles away. He was hiding somewhere, and now that his precious clan was lost, he would have nowhere else to go.

Except _everywhere_.

Genji left Overwatch as soon as he could with only one thought burning hot and bright in his mind, and it was _Kill Hanzo_.

He had felt the green when he was destroying the Shimada-gumi. He had felt it, and it had felt so _good_ to know that feeling again – the feeling of green, no matter how twisted he knew it was. It was green and real and fueled by the thought that he would finally – finally – have revenge. When Hanzo was not there to die, the green had gone. Revenge and green – they were _linked_.

Genji set out, clinging to the thought of revenge desperately and angrily, not even wanting to admit to himself how ridiculous the idea of revenge leading him back to green was. He couldn’t afford to admit it. It was all he had left.

 

Months. Months since leaving Overwatch for good, and not a single sign of Hanzo. The thought of the feeling of green was slipping further and further from his hands as a hope and more of a lame excuse to keep going, to keep recharging, shutting down, powering up, walking and hiding and lying and cheating his way through his flimsy excuse for a life.

Too many springs and summers bloomed and died around him, and every time he felt shame and disgust at the sight of so much green. A hollow feeling dropped into his heart when he realized he might never feel alive again.           

He stopped looking for Hanzo. He stopped waiting for his dragon to respond. He stopped hoping that green would just suddenly appear in his life out of nowhere. He started looking for it instead. Searching the world for meaning, for life, for a purpose beyond keep going for no other reason than _it would be too much of a hassle to try and die_.

His search led him to a small village where it wasn’t ever green. Snow and rock covered every plant that might have grown – a mountain in Nepal didn’t have very many seasons beyond winter. The lack of seasons evidently did not stop the place from feeling alive, however. The village had the warm feeling of a home, and they welcomed Genji with open arms, a sharp contrast to almost everywhere else he’d ever been.

He didn’t expect to find green here. He didn’t expect to find green at all, convinced he would die hating life and everything about it, but the rumor of an omnic temple was too intriguing to pass up a visit.

(A part of him that he declared a small and insignificant part of him poked its head out of the dark corner where he shoved it and said _Maybe, just maybe, we can find green again if we go there_. Genji beat it back with everything he had, and tried to convince himself he was going only to see if it existed. Nothing more. The small part was smug.)

Genji approached the Shambali Monastery expecting a cute spectacle that he would leave within a day and continue on his fruitless journey. He never expected to be hounded endlessly by an omnic monk, someone that Genji assumed would understand his situation the least – someone that could offer him the more trivial help imaginable. But hounded he was, until Genji was thoroughly convinced this omnic was more determined to “help” him than Genji was to refuse. He gave in.

Tekhartha Zenyatta was relentless in the strangest sense. Every time Genji exploded with frustration at trivial, common, _embarrassing_ things ( _the trees are too bright, the grass is so bright, spring and summer make me feel as though the world is pushing me away, I am not worthy, I do not belong_ ) Zenyatta encouraged him to speak, and listened intently. He encouraged Genji to keep trying, no matter how many times he failed, no matter how many times he would inevitably fail. The omnic was endlessly asking questions, but never pushed farther than Genji was willing to go. He answered questions Genji asked him without hesitation. The meditated for hours, and then they were not meditating, they were talking. That was how they passed the days, with activities that Genji had, at first, considered a waste of time. Their talks became the highlight of his day.

Zenyatta asked him why he hated green, and Genji answered until his answer was _Master, I do not_.

Genji never expected to find green beautiful again. He never expected to feel alive again. He never again expected to call his dragon and hear it answer.

It was strange, almost frightening, when he realized he no longer looked at the bright green trees and felt the pseudo-illness brought by shame and hatred. He looked at his reflection in the shimmering waters of a lake, and was gripped with a strange sense of fear and elation when he discovered he did not have work against the disgust he felt for himself, because it was not there. It was new experience, a bizarre experience, to accept himself – to realize he accepted himself. After working so hard for so long, he felt foolish to fear what was essentially his goal, but he could not help it.

He felt...different. A way he had not felt in years, since he had been granted his new body. He felt like a plant bursting through the ice and snow after a years-long winter, bright green and blooming and brimming with cautious life. He was no longer bitter. He was no longer angry. He was no longer afraid of green, no longer afraid of the color that had defined him for so long, and would continue to define him. He no longer felt ostracized from the living.

His green was not the same, however. He had realized long before he accepted himself that, if he did recover, he would never be the same. Some colors become so diluted that they are irrecoverable, but Genji did not mind. He was a different person, he didn’t want to be the same. So he discovered his new green, and found that he quite liked it. It did not share the same neon electricity of his youth, but it was still bright. A softer bright, perhaps, but bright all the same. The color of grass on a bright day after heavy rain, a forest of thousands of trees on a summer day, a lush, natural green with a spark that called to the world _I am alive, I am alive, I am alive_. He was _alive_.

Genji Shimada was _alive, alive, alive_ , and he was no longer afraid of the feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> green was going to be either lucio or genji. as much as i love lucio, you can pry the green cyborg ninja dude from my cold, dead hands. 
> 
> maybe i'll double up on green. who knows?? certainly not me....


	2. Blue

The world holds many shades of blue. The soft, comforting blue of the sky, the dark, gray-blue of the ocean – both enticing and threatening – the bright, energetic blues that made the hard-light structures seem so perfect, strong enough to carry mountains. And then there is the blinding, electrified, uncaring blue, the color of twin dragons, their jaws wide and roaring a challenge to the world and everything in it – the cool, powerful, uncaring, _terrifying_ color blue. The one that wielded the dragons did not think the color blue suited him. At least, not the traditional blues.

Hanzo considered himself the color of the sky in a storm. Blue overcome with gray, dark, roiling, hardly blue any longer. Perhaps once, he had been blue. Blue, the color of the ocean and the sky and laughing rivers. The color of freedom. How funny that he was never free. Not from his family, not from himself.

Yes, he had been blue, once. A long time ago, before pain, before rules, before he could take blue for granted. He was many different shades of blue, but blue all the same. As a child, he was the blue of the sky, bright and wide and open, stretching from one end of the earth to the other. Growing up, his shade darkened. Not clouded. It just became deeper and deeper. His blue drifted so _far_ from the sky, and he became the ocean. The ocean’s blue, mysterious and dangerous, riling and foaming, as quick to anger as to a gentle, lazy wave. Less carefree and more capricious.

As an adult, Hanzo’s blue became ever darker, nearly blacked with its deep shade. The night sky without stars, the bottom of the ocean, the never ending drop into a well. Contained. Dark. Dangerous. It was when he had become obsessed with honor and duty, of taking up his father’s mantle, clouding himself with his father’s threatening color. Hanzo was frightened of himself, though he’d never admit it, not even to himself. Not even to Genji. 

Genji. Bright green, bright smile, bright eyes. Gone.

Secretly, Hanzo envied his brother’s green. A bright blue getting darker was a storm rolling in, a warning to take shelter, to hide from the danger. A bright green getting darker would inspire thoughts of shaded grass on a spring afternoon or of richly colored leaves. But Genji didn’t _get_ darker. He became saturated, vivid, so bright he hurt to look at, but it was his brother’s _intensity_ at Hanzo envied most. His dark blue was not intense. It was _imposing_. Genji screamed “here!” and Hanzo said nothing. Hanzo was always heard first.

Hanzo had always found it funny that blue and green existed so often beside each other. Blue skies and green trees, the land and sea, inseparable and inescapable. When the sky went dark, shadows crept over the trees so that they, too, would become as dark as the sky. Which made it even funnier that Hanzo and Genji went in opposite directions; while Hanzo darkened, Genji was only more determined to make himself bright. Either to make a pointed statement to the Shimada-gumi, or simply out of spite for the universe, Hanzo was never able to tell. And now he never would.

After Genji’s death ( _murder, his murder_ ), it took Hanzo all of thirty seconds after the adrenaline wore off and the mask he’d tried to hide himself behind fell apart to collapse in his room, to fall apart like the leader of the Shimada-gumi never should. His chest constricted like it was wrapped in the serpentine body of a dragon, his head swam with incoherent thoughts, apologies and insults (most directed at himself) and curses and regrets tumbled from his lips nonsensically, he sobbed and bawled until his throat was rubbed raw, his face buried in his bloodied hands.

And as he mourned, he knew he did not deserve it. He did not deserve to mourn the one he killed. He did not deserve to be shedding tears over his brother, _his brother, he’d killed his brother, what kind of monster –_

And as he mourned, his blue became grayer, grayer, grayer, until all of it was hidden behind storm clouds heavy enough to block the sun. Heavy enough to block the brightest blue, to keep all color hidden and confined for fear of releasing it and letting loose a terrible danger upon the world.

Within days of Genji’s death ( _murder_ ), Hanzo had left Shimada Castle. Left without a word, without even staying for the funeral (there would be no funeral, he knew. The elders would throw his brother’s body over a bridge, watch it splash into the water, and declare the work done). He packed only the barest necessities – food, water, two sets of clothes, Storm Bow, all the arrows he could carry safely – and departed in the darkest hours of the night. No one would question him – he was the head of the family, after all. When he didn’t come back, that would be when he would have to put his guard up. In the words of his father, betrayal was worse than death. _It is without honor_.

Hanzo ran over the rooftops of Hanamura, silent as a shadow and smooth as silk, landing and leaping like a cat. It was what he was trained for, and he was good at it. Unfortunately, he was too good.

 _Betrayal is without honor_.

Honor. What did honor matter to him any longer? After murdering his brother, he’d committed the greatest betrayal of his life. There was no honor in him any longer.

The sky was cloudy that morning, as if it agreed.

 

Hanzo met his first assassin in a hotel room in Xinbei.

After three weeks of travelling - on planes, boats, and _anyone_ (knowingly or not) who would take him - from Hanamura, to Kagoshima, to Okinawa, to Miyakojima, to Yonaguni, to Xinbei, and was planning to take the next boat to Hong Kong, and from there, to as far away from Japan as possible. The Shimada-gumi had eyes in most places, but the farther he ran, the less eyes they had to see with. Maybe he could run to America, he mused, sitting in his hotel room, scrolling through the news on a holopad, tying to see if he was a wanted man _publicly_ yet. He could stay underground as a geometry teacher – his tutors always said he was a natural. Hell, even _Genji_ –

He stopped thinking.

He found he couldn’t focus on anything anymore. His thoughts would always wander back to... _that_. No matter what he was thinking about, it would always lead back to _that_.

He tossed the holopad aside and flopped down on the bed, trying to think of something else – anything else. The decor was nice, he supposed. The wallpaper was a soft lilac color, with tiny red flowers splattered across the surface. The curtains were gold with a white trim, blowing gently in the open window –

Hanzo was on his feet in an instant, Storm Bow nocked, and another arrow in his hand.

_He hadn’t opened the window._

The silence roared in his ears. If the assassin was any good, they would have figured out Hanzo knew they were there. But he wasn’t going to go looking for them; as good a fighter as he was, surprise attacks do not take skill into consideration. Whoever it was would simply have to attack him first. He waited for one minute. When no one was forthcoming, he almost laughed. Did they mean to try and trick him? He was paranoid, yes. But a fool, not so much. Carefully, Hanzo switched the arrow he had nocked for one of his precious-few Sonic Arrows. He drew back, and fired directly into the floor. He waited as the sonar swept the room.

There was someone in the closet.

Quick work was made, as Hanzo crept to the door, swung it open quickly and ducked behind it. The would-be assassin leapt out, but found nothing save an arrow in their skull.

Hanzo stared down at the body in disgust. The dragons inside him roared, tugging on their spiritual leashes, mad with hunger for the fight. Hanzo nearly panicked, and calmed them with promises of plenty more battles to come. The dark blue dragon that decorated his arm seemed to glare up at him. They were starting to grow restless.

Hanzo hadn’t called his dragons since leaving Hanamura. He hadn’t spoken with them, didn’t even try. They often broke through the wall of his mind to growl at him and demand attention, but he shoved them away as quickly as he could. He knew it was unsafe to neglect the dragons, it might be life threatening (he was unsure; no one in his family had neglected their dragons before). But he couldn’t call them – he _wouldn’t_ call them. Not anymore, not since...

Since.

The dragons, they were for the Shimada family. As far as Hanzo was concerned, there _wasn’t_ a Shimada family any longer. He wanted only to distance himself from that name, that _title_ of Shimada. That name held no honor to him now. And it wasn’t as if he could use it in public – it was too recognizable. It just felt unclean to use, after everything he’d done while wearing it proudly. The dragons were not for him anymore. He did not know why they stayed. It wasn’t like he deserved their partnership. Him, a man who consisted more of gray than any other color. And the dragons, in all their magnificence, a bright, electric blue.

The blue that he used to be, and the blue he would never be again.

He wondered again about blue, and many more times in his decade on the run. Why blue? Why, of all colors, was he blue? Could he even consider himself blue any longer? He had become unrecognizable to even _himself_ – the Shimada Hanzo he knew would never stoop to mercenary work, scraping clean other people’s messes, it would have been beneath him. Now, he could not decide if he had stooped to their level, or was raising himself up to meet it.

They sky seemed so far away – blue seemed so far away – in those ten years he spent hiding and running and scraping up what work he could so he could get payed to run and hide again. He was not free, like the sky, he was not powerful, like the ocean, he was not anything. He was a ghost flitting in and out of the shadows, a stranger standing in the rain, staring up at the sky, aspiring to something impossible, a gift that no one was able to give: Redemption.

Once every year, Hanzo returned to Hanamura. Carefully, cautiously, with heavy scouting and a plan in case things went wrong, the ex-leader of the Shimada-gumi snuck into their territory.

And prayed.

He snuck through what was once his home, to the temple, and prayed for his brother. Only in those moments did he feel something like his old self again, like he pulling down a mask, the illusion of blue, and it comforted him like nothing else did. At least, even if he could not forgive himself, even if he could not be redeemed for his actions, he could assure that Genji’s spirit was at peace, and let his little brother know how sorry he was. At least he would know.

But he would never be forgiven.

Every year for ten years, Hanzo repeated this ritual. It was both a relief, and a form of torture, he realized. For every minute he thought of Genji, his entire being constricted, wrung itself like a wet cloth until he felt he might choke on his own guilt. Yet, at the same time, he was able to throw that guilt somewhere, release it in some way, instead of wallowing in it, letting it consume him. Not to say that he wasn’t guilty. Oh, he was. He knew it. The dragons knew it. He hoped that Genji knew it.

On the tenth year of his pilgrimage, he wasn’t surprised that as assassin was waiting for him. He was wondering why it hadn’t happened sooner, in fact. This routine was a weak spot, one that any competent spy could figure out. He had almost been hoping for it.

But this was different. He did not expect for the assassin to lecture him about his brother. He did not expect to feel _enraged, insulted_ by the idea that this stranger would dare speak to him of his brother. He did not expect to hear the dragons roar in defiance, in hunger and rage. He did not expect to answer their call, to release them for the first time in a decade, let the blue wash over him in a terrifying display of power.

He did not expect for his dragons to return with a third, a bright green dragon ( _How? Genji is dead_ ). He did not expect them to screech in pride, roar in triumph _We have found him, we have finally found him, the Brother Who Was Lost, we have found him_.

He did not expect that assassin to be his brother.  

Every shade of blue consumed him at once, flickering through him so quickly it made him sick. The sky’s elation, the ocean’s anger, the storm’s sadness, the dark blue pain of his soul – guilt, remembrance, sorrow, a buried power, a forgotten pride – the gray clouds parting for once in ten years only to overwhelm him with so many feelings he couldn’t decide to focus on one.

So he took them all in, and that night he did not sleep.

He did not sleep, because he was both on the verge of tears and laughter and hysteria. His brother was alive, he told himself, _my brother is alive and forgives me_. _Genji is alive, but look at what happened to him. Look at what I’ve done, what I’ve turned him into. Is he even still my brother?_

Light blue, dark blue, the blue-green of the ocean in a hurricane, a monsoon, a tsunami of emotions crashing on the shores of his mind and never relenting. He was still guilty, because how was it possible, _how can he forgive me for what I’ve done._

He was not better, knowing his brother was alive and essentially a machine. His blue was not as it was in his youth – he did not expect it to ever return to that shade, not in this life.

But as the days went on, he discovered his blue has less gray to shade it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this is later than i meant it to be, but hey, i got it done!  
> also, you would not BELIEVE how many characters in overwatch have blue as a main theme. it's like, at least 6


	3. Red

Red can mean a lot of different things. On the one side, the happier side, red means love, passion, romance, a bright red apple, a Valentine’s Day card in the shape of a heart, the color of _I love you_. On the other not-so-happy end, red is the color of anger and rage and danger. The color of pain, blood, and lot of other things Jesse McCree liked to consider as little as possible. Preferably, never.

Not that it was possible for him to just _forget_ everything red had stood for in his life. Sure, he’d had some pretty nasty run-ins with that particular color, but it wasn’t _all_ bad. At least, not later. In the beginning, well...Let’s just say he wouldn’t have turned up his nose at a different color entirely.

Deadlock was its own special kind of red. An awful red-brown color, like blood in the dirt. Back when he was kid, a real stupid kid, he thought that color was the only thing keeping him alive. They promised him power, money, safety, they promised him that he could _be_ somebody. With nothing to his name but his favorite hat and his Pa’s old revolver, Jesse joined the Deadlock Gang when he was fourteen.

The promises didn’t come through. Not immediately, anyway. He started off as the punching back for all the older members, when they weren’t training him to be cold-blooded, to kill anyone they sent him on. Jesse saw more red in the years with Deadlock than he’d ever seen in his life. Angry, fire red eyes of his superiors when he didn’t do as he was told. Oozing, dripping red from countless injuries that slithered down heads, arms, legs, chests, splattering in the sand of the Santa Fe desert. Jesse saw the Deadlock red every day of his life.

Eventually, the promises did come through. He got power – power over other human beings, the power to end one life after another, Peacekeeper’s _bang-bang-bang_ akin to the sound of God striking down His foes. He got money – money stained red with the blood he’d spilled to get it, money stuffed into back pockets and bank accounts, laundered until it shined, but Jesse could never stop seeing the disgusting mix of green on red. He got safety – hiding in alleys from the police, the searching sirens brothers of the Grim Reaper searching him out in the dark, Peacekeeper cocked and ready to keep himself _safe_ from the law. He did get to be somebody – he got to be somebody on police scanners, he got to be somebody on a wanted poster, he got to be somebody his parents didn’t recognize, the target of the sentence _Why are you doing this,_ mijo _?,_ and the somebody to reply _Because it’s better than being here!_ He got to be somebody to regret ever hurting his _mamá_ by opening his dumbass mouth.

He also got to be somebody in the raid that the Deadlock Gang slipped up, made mistakes, and the first to start shooting wildly when the Overwatch agents swooped in to collect the stupid kids playing at ruling the world. He got to be somebody who wasn’t immediately taken to prison, and instead was interviewed by none other than Gabriel Reyes. 

He got to be somebody who was offered a second chance.

A second chance in Blackwatch, the part of Overwatch nobody wanted to talk about, the place they put the ones they thought they could save, because they couldn’t save themselves. The shadowy half of Overwatch, the darkness they sweep under the rug. Ironically, working in the darkness was working with the brightest, blood red Jesse had ever seen.

Some of it was expected, the death, the secrecy, the demanding work and ridiculous hours. That part is what reminded him of Deadlock, sometimes, without the illegal weapons trafficking. Jesse was used to seeing dead bodies at this point, and had thought enough about his own corpse enough that being put in dangerous situations didn’t much bother him as much as they should.

(They didn’t bother him during the day – at night he’d lie awake with his hands, his eyes, his memories drenched in red, so much red. He didn’t get much sleep.)

It was the red that really shocked Jesse about Blackwatch, what really set it aside from anything he’d ever known. He was used to the gritty red from Deadlock, but he didn’t get the excuse of dirty work in Blackwatch. Sure, they did everything that Overwatch agents would’ve (probably) been prosecuted for taking care of, but Gabriel Reyes was nothing if not a systematic son of bitch. Every mission was to be carried out with near-perfect cleanliness, not a spot of dirt mixed into Blackwatch’s color, not a speck of brown ever touched it if Reyes had anything to say about it – and he _always_ had something to say about it. In the end, Reyes’ hyper awareness of his well-oiled machine kept them all alive. Be aware, be silent, be fast.

That was half of Blackwatch. The other half consisted of things like covert ops, recon missions, assassinations, kidnapping, torture, and other things, worse things, things Jesse had learned not to remember, so he replaced them with red, a burning, fire hot red, so red it hurt to think about. He replaced everything with red, every sense, every feeling. The taste of red to replace the taste of blood and sweat and desperation in his mouth. The smell of red to replace the scent of death, decay, gun smoke, and the places he hid in the dark, trying not to breathe too loudly, his heart beating in his throat. The sound of red to replace the sound of screams from the med bay, from the back rooms, from the special ops missions that didn’t leave a single man alive, his own screams, all colored red.

Sometimes the color red stained his ears, eyes, mouth and he couldn’t block it out, the scarlet enveloping him, swallowing him whole, until it turned into his own sound, his own red. To this day, he still doesn’t think about Blackwatch red, the dangerously bright red that encompassed most of his job (and probably his psyche).

But god dammit, Jesse still owes a lot to Blackwatch. He owes that bright, deadly scarlet the fact that he isn’t rotting in jail, he owes it his freedom from Deadlock – a freedom he never realized he wanted – he owes it his family speaking to him again, he owes it his friends – he owes it his damn life.

And it wasn’t all bad. At times, and especially with friends, the harsh red of Blackwatch mellowed out, became softer on the eyes, the ears, the hands, the heart.

Angela Zeigler, genius in the making (that’s what he called her – she said she hated it, but Jesse saw the pride in her eyes), a kid not much older than himself fresh outta university and working as one of the best doctors Overwatch had to offer. They got to know each other through Jesse’s many ( _too many_ , she’d said, clucking her tongue) visits, to checked for one thing or another. He couldn’t help himself, he’d told her, after her question about why he threw himself into danger for no reason. _Self-destructive tendencies sorta come with my stunning personality_ , he used to joke about it. Angela made him stop.

She made him stop rushing headlong into trouble like he didn’t have half a life to live, because he might get himself killed one day, and _Jesse McCree_ , mein Gott _, you have people that care about you – myself included! – who would rather you not participate in suicide missions of your own design._ He didn’t know what to say to that, so he’d just said _yes, ma’am._ It’d taken more than one talk to completely snap him out of whatever the hell he was doing to himself, but Angela was there the whole time.

Even when Jesse wasn’t her patient, Angela was always running around the med bay like she owned the place. She would, eventually, Jesse saw it coming a mile away, but back then, she just acted the part of the boss. A few people took her seriously, others told her she should let those in charge _actually be_ in charge. _You sure showed them_ , Jesse would tell her, years and years later, _I knew you’d make ‘em eat their words on a silver platter._ Angela had only smacked his arm, and gave him a look like he’d said something crude, but he could see it in her eyes; she knew she deserved this. Jesse felt the soft red in those moments, the little things. Helping each other.

Little Fareeha Amari, too, was a part of that lighthearted red. She was only twelve, but already had the tell-tale spitfire of someone who was going to do something either incredibly stupid or breathtakingly amazing, something that Jesse had when he was her age. Jesse was betting on the latter choice – maybe knowing Ana was her mother had something to do with that. Maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t bear to imagine Fareeha making the decisions he made.

At first, they didn’t meet outside of when Ana and Jesse were both in the med bay at the same time (rarely) and the little girl couldn’t bear to be apart from her mother for such a long time. She’d gotten his attention once or twice (or four or five times), and he didn’t think much of it until he hadn’t seen her in a couple months, started wondering about her, wondering how she was doing. He knew Ana trained her in hand-to-hand, martial arts, stuff like that. He wondered if she was having any time to just be a kid, to have fun. He never wondered why he started worrying about her like that (he told himself it wasn’t because of all the regrets he made in Deadlock, all of the things he never got to do because he was so busy trying to make a name for himself in all the wrong ways).

He asked Ana about her. Sometimes. The first time had gotten him a raised eyebrow and a confused _She’s fine._ The second time he’d received the same, but with an added, _Why do you ask?_ He’d just shrugged, casual, nonchalant, as if he was just trying to make conversation. _Just thought I’d ask – haven’t seen her in a while s’all._

The third time he asked, Ana had just smiled and said _Why don’t you ask her yourself?, then_ he heard someone shout _JESSE!,_ and he felt something – some _one_ , rather – leap onto his back, sending him directly to the floor with a weight on his back that sounded suspiciously like Fareeha Amari.

Jesse was never once embarrassed to say that one of his closest friends was five years younger than he was. Not when he saw her laugh or smile or talk about her big dreams of protecting the innocent and being a hero, _Just like Mom!_ He felt he was her older brother, and she definitely played the part of younger sister, rolling his eyes at him when he told her to be careful, calling him _smelly cowman_ when she was poking fun, asking him for help with her homework, trying to teach him some game or another, pushing him away with a frustrated _Here, watch me_ , and never giving it back. He didn’t mind – he liked to see her have fun. He liked to see her be a kid, have the gentle red he knew she deserved.

There were others, too. Genji had been a poor lost soul (ask far as Jesse knew, he still was) that he’d tried his best to help out. They weren’t the closest friends, but Genji was noticeably nicer to him than he was with literally everyone else. Which wasn’t much, nor was it often. Genji only visited the Blackwatch sector of Overwatch when he wanted (regardless of when he was _allowed_ ) to do something underground, undercover, slit throats in the dark and have little to no one find out about it. A strange sort of thing to want to do, but Jesse didn’t ask and Genji never told him. Sometimes they’d meet in the commons (rarely, when Genji wanted someone to talk to, which was even rarer) and they’d sit down and talk about nothing. There wasn’t much comforting red to Genji – there wasn’t much of anything comforting at all – but it’s the thought that counts. Jesse never thought Genji was a lost cause, and tried his best to give the cyborg comforting words, but they all seemed to go in one ear (did he have ears?) and out the other. When Genji left, he didn’t tell Jesse. Jesse could only hope he’d find whatever it is he was looking for.

And Reyes. Gabriel “Motherfucking” Reyes. Even Reyes had a bit of a soft side, even if he’d kick Jesse’s ass so hard he’d see next week if he ever said anything about it. Though with Reyes it wasn’t as much gentle calming red as it was of a less-severe red. His advice usually went somewhere along the lines of _You’re a damn good kid, so stop acting like a fuckin’ idiot,_ capiche _?_ Somehow, it was comforting. Reyes made it known that any of his agents could come to him whenever they needed, no matter what for, and he’d be there to listen. Jesse wasn’t the only one who’d go to Reyes, to scream, to cry, to complain, to tell him things he wouldn’t tell anyone else, about nightmares, about _life_. And Reyes, Gabriel “That Bastard” Reyes, would sit next to him, usually with a cigarette, and let him talk his ear off for an hour or two. It was nice.

When Blackwatch started to fall apart – and Overwatch along with it – Jesse decided it was time to get a move on. He didn’t like being around when things fell apart. Too much red to handle, but at the same time, too much washed clean.

He left that red behind. Both kinds. They wouldn’t ever truly leave him, he knew that. But he knew when it was high time he started looking for a new red to occupy his life.

He likes that his _serape_ is red. It never lets him forget all the red in his past – the red he shouldn’t forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not sure why mccree suffering is so much fun to write, but it was fun to write
> 
> the updates are gonna start slowing down! school starts this week (ugh) so i'll be pretty busy. i hope you enjoy this for now!


	4. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS ITS BEEN A WHILE
> 
> jfc im so sorry about the infinity long wait, life has been kicking my ass, but i hope you enjoy this anyway

Gold is most synonymous with worth. Money, wealth, treasure, things considered valuable, or in some way enriching. Good comedy was _solid gold_ , silence is _golden_ , the sun has _golden rays_ , angelic radiance is _basking in golden light_. And, as the pattern of value dictates, where there is gold and wealth and enrichment, there is _greed_. Hoarding, seizing, personal gain with disregard for all others. Like crows, taking the shiniest baubles and whisking them away, never to be seen again. Angela wondered if she was greedy, sometimes. Wondered if she asked too much, got too confident. Risked too much all for the sake of gold, good and great and _worthy_.

Her intentions had been nothing but good (pure as gold) when she started her career. Angela Zeigler, already having made a name for herself in the medical world as a teenager, had only wanted to help people. All her research, studies, findings, prototypes, finished inventions, proven theories, all of it was for the sake of _help_ , to keep people happy and healthy. She put forth groundbreaking work, saved more lives in her early twenties than most doctors had saved in their entire line of work, and caught the attention of Overwatch – a global peacekeeping force. To Angela, it was a dream come true.

Mr. and Mrs. Zeigler were not so lucky as to see their daughter’s work. They would have been proud, Angela liked to think. An organization that opposed war, fought to keep peace on Earth, was something they would have liked to see. It’s a shame that war got to them first.

Angela worked for them – for people like them, for people like _her_. She worked for peace, and prosperity, and health, because she had seen what war, and poverty, and disease could cause. She had gotten the letters halfway through completing her doctorate. Both of them, within mere weeks of each other. She could recite both letters from memory.

  _Dear Ms. Zeigler, we regret to inform you that your father, Emergency First Responder Loïc Zeigler, has passed away. Please accept our deepest sympathies and understanding during your period of bereavement._

And then a month later.

_Dear Ms. Zeigler, we regret to inform you that your mother, Sergeant First Class Eléonore Zeigler, has passed away. Please accept our deepest sympathies and understanding during your period of bereavement._

_Please accept our deepest sympathies and understanding during your period of bereavement._

_Deepest sympathies and understanding during your period of bereavement –_

_Understanding during your period of bereavement –_

_Period of bereavement –_

_Period of bereavement –_

She didn’t like to think about it often.

Her parents’ deaths almost drove her to give up her education. Both of her greatest inspirations – gone. They would never get to see her succeed, never get to see her grow up, she would never get to see them grow old. She would never get to celebrate their retirement, care for them in their old ages. She didn’t even get to say goodbye. In her grief, she skipped classes, holed up in her apartment for a week, and did nothing but mourn. It nearly tore her apart.

In the end, she didn’t give up school. She completed her doctorate in her parent’s memory, and only one thing changed about her. She became bitterly opposed to war.

Angela had always disliked war. Even the idea of it never made sense to her – there were so many ways to compromise situations that didn’t have to involve endless bloodshed. Nothing about war made logical sense, and in her opinion, the human race would be better off without war altogether. But after her parents’ deaths, that confusion, that _aloof_ thinking grew and grew until it burst and became loathing.

She was disgusted by war. Death. Violence. She hated war like she’d never hated anything else. She dedicated her life to spiting war, becoming a doctor and inventing brilliant ways to help people ravaged by war. Every day, the shadow of the consequences of war followed her in the form of two folded letters that she always kept in the breast pocket of her lab coat. And every day she beat that shadow back, vehemently, with her research on the Caduceus Project. She spit in the face of war, death, and suffering. She cut it open and watched it bleed away with every patient she stitched, every wound she healed, every groundbreaking research paper she wrote on the potential of nanotech in medicine. Every award she was ever given, she knew, little by little, she was making war a little less painful.

Overwatch approached her after the success of the Caduceus Project’s use of applied nanobiology. They offered her a position in their medical team. She almost laughed at the message as it flickered blue on her holopad. Doctor Angela Zeigler, the woman who had dedicated her life to stopping war in its bloody tracks, work for an organization rooted in _war_? Her golden principle was being taunted, and she almost deleted the message right then.

But gold is inherently greedy.

The more she thought about it, the more she pondered the idea of working for Overwatch...wouldn’t it give her a better opportunity to _save_ lives? The organization might have been created to wage a war, but the Omnic Crisis was claiming thousands – hundreds of thousands – of lives. Would this not be the perfect opportunity to use her golden principle? Isn’t war the very reason she was driven to this point of success in her career – shouldn’t she make the most of it?

Angela joined Overwatch, not without some degree of hesitancy, but fully confident in her abilities to make the Omnic Crisis as bloodless a war as she could manage.

It was a worthy goal that became a burden. And from a burden, to an obsession.

Overwatch’s militaristic approaches – as it was a militaristic organization – made it very difficult for Angela to get anything even approaching the word _peace_ much less _bloodless war._ The soldiers were suffering massive mortal injuries – so she responded with researched already developed, Caduceus. Her superiors kept sending more and more soldiers to die on the front lines – so she responded with the Valkyrie Swift-Response Suit. The medical teams weren’t getting enough done – so she responded with going out to the front lines herself. She challenged every violent option with a peaceful one, and while it might not have been everything she wanted, she saved a lot of lives.

Angela felt the shadow of war cower in her presence every time she stepped out of the dropship in her Valkyrie Suit, her golden wings an aggressive force for peace in a world that refused it. Every soldier she sent back on their feet, she felt the bloodstain war caused get a little smaller. Like she was washing it out, little by little, life by life.

But then the Omnic Crisis ended. The war was over, and it was far from bloodless. Angela Zeigler still had a lot of work to do.

She didn’t have to go out to the front lines anymore, because there were no front lines to fight on. Nevertheless, she stayed with Overwatch, and they eventually made her in charge. Finally. Besides, as long as this organization was around, she figured, there would be lives to save. That was her job, after all. Her golden principle.

 Angela Zeigler didn’t know about Blackwatch. At first. When she did find out, she almost tore out her hair and ruined her throat in her rage. Overwatch – the so-called “global peace-keeping force” – involving itself with black ops? Kidnapping? _Torture_? She almost quit on the spot, but she still had lives to save, she still had friends.

Jesse McCree ended up being one of them. He wasn’t much older than she was, which shocked her a little bit. He also already showed signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and tendencies that suggested depression. That surprised her, too, but she supposed it shouldn’t have, with all the self-deprecating jokes he made, and his habit of doing reckless things that she suspected he hoped would kill him. She didn’t let him get that far.

Angela didn’t have a degree in psychology. She wasn’t a therapist – Hell, she probably _needed_ one. But she talked to Jesse anyway, she helped him as much as she could, sometimes as his medical professional, but most of the time as a friend. He’d already been given a second chance with Blackwatch (as much as she hated to say it) and he _wasn’t_ a bad person, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was. She could see him going on to do better things – great things – if he could only let go of his past, or at least accept it and try to move on. She tried to convince herself she wasn’t being hypocritical.

She made other friends as well. She and Ana Amari got along, though she disagreed furiously with how she intended to use the custom sniper-rifle; Jack Morrison, the Strike-Commander himself, actually _listened_ to her advice from time-to-time, aside from being generally a pleasant man, if haunted; sometimes she could get along with Gabriel Reyes, when they weren’t arguing about how best to keep the peace. Ana’s young daughter had taken quite a shine to Angela, and the doctor couldn’t bring herself to ignore Fareeha either – though she never let her get anywhere _near_ the medical supplies.

On the whole, she enjoyed most of her time at Overwatch. She got more research done than she ever had working in a university lab, and she liked to think she saved more lives than any of her superiors combined, in the long run. Her golden principle had worked – _was working_. Every day, she set back the line of violence with her work, and she was immensely proud of it. She was confident. She never wondered if she asked too much.

Then, her most extensive surgery to date arrived at Overwatch at 4:52 AM under the name SHIMADA, GENJI.

She didn’t understand how the poor man was still alive when she arrived on the scene, Valkyrie Suit active, her Caduceus Staff working overtime to try and keep him stable on the helicopter ride back to Overwatch HQ.

When they asked her to make him stable enough to _speak_ , she didn’t think she could do it. His limbs were almost entirely severed from his body, extensive damage had been done to both his lungs, large, and small intestines. Not to mention the brain damage he was certainly sustaining, as well as several broken vertebra, and other bones surely. She didn’t have time to read over his scan, mostly because she was focused on trying to keep him alive _enough_ – now they wanted him to _speak_?

 _Save his life,_ the part of her that housed her golden principle said. _Save his life._

She did, just barely. She got most of his vitals hooked up to tubes, wires, anything she could get her hands on, just to get him to speak. It took several weeks, and almost non-stop surgery. And that was only the beginning.

Genji Shimada met with Commander Morrison himself, and was offered the option: join us or die.

Angela was appalled, to say the least. Overwatch had spent millions of dollars on just getting the half-dead man to breathe. Were they were willing to throw all of that away – throw _all of her hard work_ away – just because he wouldn’t join Overwatch? Fortunately, she never had to see that question play out, because Genji decided to join. And now they wanted the top doctor in their medical team to bring this man back to life.

 _How?_ she asked.

 _Just do it,_ they answered. _But make sure he can still fight._

Angela Zeigler was at a crossroads. On the one hand, _Save his life, Save his life._ Her golden principle taunted her with the opportunity – cheating death itself. The ultimate revenge against war, against violence, against bloodshed. On the other hand, _Make sure he can still fight._ Overwatch didn’t want to save Genji for his sake. They wanted a weapon.

_Save his life._

She toiled over the body of Genji Shimada for three and a half weeks – a nearly sleepless, foodless, restless three and a half weeks. She rebuilt him from (essentially) the ground up. Metal, silicone, fibers, armor plating, the list went on and on. The man’s reconstruction almost cost more than all the money she’d spent during on research _before and after_ the Omnic Crisis. He was something that had never been attempted before. Angela was _remaking_ a person.

At the behest of her superiors – and for the sake of her job – the good doctor added a compartment for shuriken in his forearm. She gave him enhanced strength and agility, she gave him a targeting system in his core computer, she gave him hooks to hold on sheathes of the blades he’d been known to practice. And, in her reluctance, gave him a new life as a weapon.

Then, after it was all over, after she had rebuilt him and given him a life, after she had turned on his processors, after he looked at the world with disgust...

Angela Zeigler wondered if she asked too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i debated making this chapter a lot longer but i didn't want to go overkill. maybe i'll fix it later


	5. Gray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prepare for the last chapter in probably a very long time - i have testing for almost the entire month of may
> 
> on the bright side, i'm graduating this year, so!!!! either more time or less time, we'll find out

Though the universe exists in a multitude of fantastic colors, gray, Zenyatta always thought, was the most fascinating. Of course, it might not have been the most aesthetically pleasing – some even called it dull – but it did hold several different connotations that made it very _interesting_. He saw it as the color that symbolized choice and compromise. Shades of gray, between the black and white of the world, moral compass existing in a tangible form. Not a single shade of gray was ever made on accident, and all of them were so very different. So, so very different.

Although, difference was what made the world – what made _existing_ – so interesting in the first place. A countless number of possibilities existed for every situation, from one extreme to the other and everything in-between. All good and all bad and all neither and all both. Though, of course, all of that was subjective. All gray was subjective.

But, from a purely subjective standpoint, the dark shade of gray that characterized the Omnic Crisis was Zenyatta’s least favorite shade. Darkness and death had their places in the world. Regretfully, even violence served a purpose, even on a scale that went as dark as could be comprehended. But the Crisis was not on the scale. It transcended the scale, and plunged into the deepest dark gray and darker.

Purely subjective.

Subjectively, the Omnic Crisis was a pit of horrors from every perspective. From the unwilling omnics, being sent to die, screaming against the God AIs that had wormed their ways in the programming of every poor soul ever sent forth from the omniums. From the humans, the scourge of the century, watching innocents die by the masses, for no other reason than their technology had begun attacking without warning. From the omnics that were built during the war, knowing no other world, no other life, feeling something was wrong and dying feeling that way. From the humans that faced near-impenetrable machines, that went on missions they knew they wouldn’t be coming home from. From the injured the dead and the dying that littered battle fields for days. From the tensions that still lingered in the backs of everyone’s minds.

Subjectively, the Omnic Crisis was the worst collection of memories that Zenyatta possessed.

He was a young omnic, built as a solider during the Crisis, one of the hundreds of thousands that had been constructed as cannon fodder, and knew no other life outside of fighting. From the beginning he had known something was wrong, but he had no framework to base his feelings on. So he accepted that to fight and (calculated by his computer but ignored by his personality) to die was his only purpose. He had no gray – only black and white. He was either fighting or he wasn’t.

After being released from the hold of the God AIs, he had no idea what to do with himself. There was no longer a compulsion to fight, no longer were there orders streaming at him from a single source. It was unsettling, having no reason to exist. His world began to fill with gray very quickly after that.

He was either fighting or he wasn’t. Or he was travelling, trying to find others that had been created in his unit. Or he was stumbling upon a human city, and he was faced with violence. Or he was running from the same violence. Or he wasn’t fighting back. Much of the world was dark shades of gray, then. He was either fighting or he wasn’t or he was trying to survive.

Eventually, he came upon a human city that didn’t immediately treat him like a threat. There were other omnics there, others like him, that didn’t know what they were supposed to _do_ after being released from the God AIs. It was in a computer’s nature to receive orders, to be completely black and white. Without them, they were lost in a world full of endless, overwhelming gray.

There was another omnic there, who gave himself a name instead of a stream of numbers and letters from the production line. Mondatta, he called himself. He projected a shade of gray different than the other omnics had ever considered. Omnics, humans, they all had souls. He spoke of the “Iris” and of enlightenment and of reaching out to humans in order to teach them the omnics were not evil. Mondatta’s most dedicated follower – and, soon, closest friend – took the name “Zenyatta” and from there, the group of omnics would travel until they reached the Himalayas. The Shambali Temple was born.

Zenyatta loved living among the other monks, omnics who believed in peace and harmony between themselves and humans. The human in the village were similarly a comfort to him – a reminder that there was still hope. The comforting shade of gray that strayed further from the dark and closer to light. He was full of optimism and excitement, and almost thought that the mission of the Shambali would be easy – how could people not accept those who wanted nothing more than to work side-by-side, to co-exist?

He learned rather quickly, that not all shades of gray were so comforting.

Sometimes Mondatta would take them to human cities, where they would speak for crowds of humans, and spread their message (always with an easy escape, he made sure. Just to be safe). More often than not, their speeches would end – or not even finish – and the omnics would be met with jeering and booing and threats. Things would be thrown at them, everything from rocks to small objects to furniture. If they did not leave as quickly as the humans wanted them to, there were weapons brandished, the police called. In the best situations, they were chased out. In gray situations, they were arrested. In the worst situations, there were deaths.

Zenyatta never expected to have to fight for his life again. He wanted only peace – fighting was behind him, he wanted nothing to do with it. It brought back too many memories, too many dark grays that blocked out the lighter ones. In those situations, he forgot he wasn’t in a warzone. More than often, he felt defenseless, naked and exposed.  

Meditation helped. Prayer helped. Mondatta helped. The other monks helped. But it wasn’t enough. He hated feeling like he couldn’t help himself or his friends, despite his negative attitude toward violence, toward any sort of fighting. He did not want to see any more death than was necessary, and more would die the more defenseless they became. The more he thought about it, about fighting not out of malice but out of survival, the more it made sense to be prepared in some way. He saw the gray between the black and white. A middle ground – not a perfect solution, but there _were_ no perfect solutions.

Mondatta was less inclined to see Zenyatta’s gray. He did not want to use fighting of any kind to get his point across, _and fighting with people will not help our cause, Brother, you know this._ But Zenyatta argued with him regardless, because _if those who we are trying to teach are threatening our lives already, then I am sure they have already refused to join our cause. They might even rejoice in our not fighting back._

Mondatta did not enjoy dark humor, nor did he enjoy hearing Zenyatta’s idea for the fifth time in a row.

In the end, Zenyatta took his gray upon himself. He carved his orbs, through which he launched energy as weapons, or blessed his allies with the healing warmth of the Iris. He taught himself martial arts, and included it in his morning routine. Sparring alone was not as useful as with another opponent, but it was something, especially if the other monks refused to learn. It was irritating, but Zenyatta left them to their own devices. Everyone saw their own gray, there were even some that agreed with Zenyatta’s sentiments, but none of them could fathom going against Mondatta so blatantly. The leader himself was none too thrilled with his brother’s practices, but he had long since learned that trying to control Zenyatta was akin to controlling the weather – nigh impossible.

It was only after Zenyatta saved two of the monks without losing a single omnic or human life that the gray began to appear before Mondatta’s eyes. _Perhaps_ , he conceded after the event, _self-defense is a necessary precaution._ Zenyatta tried not to be smug (he failed).

Understandably, not all of the monks were as eager to embrace conflict as readily as the Iris. So Zenyatta started small, taught a small group of those who were willing to learn self-defense at a time. His groups grew a little larger, but not in any significant capacity. There were some who simply did not believe that such a thing was necessary. There were no (explosive) arguments, but Mondatta always made sure to bring along an omnic or two that knew how to fight every time the monks would travel elsewhere for a speech.

As time went on, the Shambali Temple was having people – both human and omnic – approaching _them_. As a safe haven, in the case of the omnics, and sometimes to convert and become monks themselves. For humans, it was usually to understand the movement, a noble cause that all the monks would happily aid them with. Though there was the odd human that passed through that came only to berate the monks or spit hateful words. The temple, in its later years, had seen its fair share of vandalisms. There were different shades of visitors, gray in all of them, some darker than others. Many, however, were light in shade, and whom the monks were happy to welcome, assist, and teach.

However, there were shades of gray to that, as well.

Zenyatta did not like the methods of the Shambali. Though he would often rephrase that. Zenyatta could _appreciate_ the methods that the Shambali used to spread the message of the Iris and peace between humans and omnics. Many traditional methods of peaceful resistance similar to popular civil rights leaders were used, and which would likely bring positive connotations between the Shambali, and therefore, their movement. Their peace talks were broadcasted widely, and hundreds came to hear Mondatta speak – especially in the later days of the Shambali. That was the lighter color in the arrangement.

The part of the methods that turned gray, for Zenyatta at least, was that they weren’t getting anything _done_. Those that rally to speeches and march for omnic rights and watch the broadcasts were fantastic assets to the Shambali, and to omnic rights in general, but they were those who _already_ agreed. They were not being convinced and their minds were not being changed. Those that disagreed _still_ disagreed. They would not willingly attend a rally for a movement they opposed. And so their message remained stagnant – a fairly deep pool with very little spread. People simply did not respond to dogmatic teachings. Lectures and speeches – they were impersonal and gave the impression of lording over others. In Zenyatta’s eyes, they implied that the subject was simply superior to any other opinion, and people simply do not respond to such forceful methods, no matter the charitability.

He tried to think of a better solution, avoided hibernation for it, running his processors until they nearly burned out. He began to worry Mondatta, who, when Zenyatta’s processors _actually_ burned out, insisted that his brother get his core computer checked for malfunctioning fans or malware. Zenyatta maintained the assertion that _I am fine, brother, I simply have a lot on my mind as of late_ , but the leader of the Shambali fretted and fussed (worried older brother that he oft repeated he _wasn’t_ ) until Zenyatta went to get checked just to give his brother some peace of mind.

And there is where he found his gray.

It was on the way back from his check-up (everything in working order, Mondatta would be happy to hear) when he heard a frustrated curse down the street and the _thump-thump-thump_ of several heavy objects. He quickly turned a corner to find a middle-aged – perhaps older – human, hunched over a torn bag of groceries. Foodstuffs littered the street, thankfully nothing torn or broken. A can of something rolled its way down to the omnic, stopping abruptly at the incline of the monk’s foot. He picked it up off the ground, and approached the human. He noted several escape routes (in case) and braced his orbs for combat (in case).

“Are you in need of assistance?” Zenyatta offered, holding out the can to the human. The man swore loudly again, looking up and stumbled backward, away from the monk. He didn’t take the can.

“Get away from me,” the man breathed. His eyes were wild with fear. His hands shook. “I don’t have anything you want.”

“I want nothing from you,” the omnic insisted. “I only wish to help –”

“I said get the _fuck_ away!” The human waved his arms wide, in a _shoo_ motion. “You Goddamn robots have already taken enough from me.”

“I am sorry for whomever you lost,” Zenyatta said, genuinely sorry. He hated to see what the Omnic Crisis left behind. The darkest gray. “The omnics that I know regret much from the Crisis. If you would allow me to assist you, well...Think of it as a gesture of goodwill?” The human was very, very still. His eyes flicked from Zenyatta to the can to the ground to his own shaking hands. He seemed as though he couldn’t quite comprehend the situation. “From myself, at least, if not all of us,” the omnic added after a pause. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to accomplish...but it seemed _correct_ somehow.

“I...Sure,” the human relented. He was breathing hard. “Just don’t...Don’t try anything.”

Zenyatta simply nodded, and bent down to the fallen groceries, stacking them to the side in a neat pile. The human bent down, slowly, cautiously, as if he was expecting Zenyatta to attack him at any moment. The monk himself felt that if he possessed a heart, it would have been breaking. War assisted nothing and no one from any walk of life. Human, omnic, man, woman, or otherwise. All suffered, even after the battles had long since been won.

The two cleaned up the mess in silence, for the most part. When everything was almost picked up and stacked in two separate piles – the human had avoided Zenyatta the whole time – the omnic decided to speak.

“I lost friends in the Omnic Crisis as well,” he admitted, and it was true. Though the omnics were puppets of the God AIs, the AI connected them all to one network – losing one was like losing a small part of himself. “It took many lives on both sides – I regret my part in it.”

“You-you _what_?”

“I regret my –”

“No, no, the other thing. You lost _friends_?” The human seemed disbelieving, and Zenyatta didn’t blame him.

“Perhaps not ‘friends’ in the way humans think of them,” the omnic admitted. “But yes. I did. We all did.”

“I...didn’t know omnics could have – well, I mean, I know you can all make friends, I just didn’t...With the God AIs and all that bullshit...” his sputtering trailed off, becoming quieter until it was silence.

“It is difficult to believe?” Zenyatta offered, stacking his last can, and looking up at the human. The human glanced up and then looked away, made himself busy with searching for a bag.

“Something like that,” he mumbled.

He produced a brown paper bag from somewhere behind him, and began putting the fallen groceries into it. Zenyatta sat where he was, prepared to wait for the human to pass him the bag when he was finished.

“Get over here and make yourself useful,” the human half-growled, to Zenyatta’s surprise, waving the omnic over.

So Zenyatta went, carrying his stack with him. He would have used his orbs to push his stack behind him so he wouldn’t have to make two trips, but he figured the human would not take too kindly to that. It was minimal labor, regardless, and he was more than willing to sacrifice his convenience for another’s comfort.

They were quiet again. This time the human started the conversation, once the bag was full.

“I lost my sister,” he whispered. “She was in my regiment and...I couldn’t get over to her fast enough and she...” he made another motion with his hand, like he was brushing something out of the air. Zenyatta noticed his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he offered, knowing it would do little, but hoping the sentiment would reach the man all the same. _Iris rest her soul_ , he added privately to himself.

“Yeah, I am too,” he agreed. “She didn’t deserve it.”

“Nobody deserves such a fate.”

The man said nothing. The omnic said nothing. Perhaps he disagreed. Perhaps there was nothing to say.

The man stood up, bag of groceries in one arm, and Zenyatta followed suit, and when he was standing, he found the human’s free hand extended toward him.

“Thank you,” he said. His mouth opened and closed, as if to add more but deciding against it.

“The pleasure is mine” Zenyatta said, shaking the human’s hand.

The human nodded, as if he’d expected that answer, and hurriedly turned to a line of apartments, unlocked one, and stepped inside.

Zenyatta went on his way back to the Shambali and to Mondatta and another shade of gray taking up space in his memory banks. The gray between human and omnic, war and peace, and the gray between two different people that had much more in common than originally presumed.

The gray of common ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is literally almost 1000 words more than any of the other characters bUT I LOVE ZENYATTA SO MCUH
> 
> i had to stop myself before this became 5000+ words or something insane like that, but writing zen is so much fun


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